"Your invitation made it obvious you weren't coming to talk about a defection," he said with only slightly veiled animosity. "So just what did you come to talk about?"
The General glanced around the room. The two aides were seated some distance away at separate tables, watchfully nursing their own cups of Otto Bergen's prized brew. The Russian’s dossier had indicated he preferred to begin negotiations with small talk, a little waltzing to put the opponent at ease. But the Foxhunter had a no-nonsense, all-business reputation. He was known as the epitome of conservatism in an agency hardly noted as a hotbed of liberals, and he soon realized the crafty Russian had changed his approach to fit.
"I represent a select group of people, including some very highly placed officials," the General said. "We are deeply concerned about conditions in our country. I hardly need to recite all of the turmoil in the republics, the ethnic conflicts, the distressing problems of food distribution and pricing."
The Foxhunter found this frank admission of Soviet failures anything but a surprise. With glasnost, the decline showed like bandages peeled back to reveal the torn flesh of self-inflicted wounds. "Not to mention your whole economy resembles a basket case," he said with a bit too much gusto.
The General raised an eyebrow but kept his voice level. "Admittedly, it is in rather worse shape than yours. Although, I must say, your adventure in the Persian Gulf seems to have taken its toll. With that unruly deficit and large trade imbalance, it must keep a lot of people in Washington up late at night."
The Foxhunter shrugged. He couldn’t deny that. The Iraqi war had only made a bad situation worse. "True. We're hearing a lot of depression talk. Meanwhile, the idiots in Congress blunder along, refusing to make the hard choices. All they can think of is cut the Pentagon budget. The President hasn't helped. It's his responsibility to straighten the knuckleheads out."
"Unfortunately, your predicament and ours may soon become much more critical," said the General in an ominous tone. "The way we see it, the Soviet Union is dangerously close to a catastrophic explosion. And should that occur, we do not believe it can be contained within our borders. That could present very grave dangers for your country, as well as the rest of the world."
Chapter 2
A frown darkened the Foxhunter's angular face. What the hell was he talking about? "An explosion?"
"An eruption of despair. People without jobs. Millions of people, no longer holding out any hope for the future. People without food. People in near panic to get away."
The Foxhunter's frown deepened. He had read an analysis a few days before describing the dislocations resulting from Soviet moves toward a market-driven economy. Outmoded and inefficient plants were being shut down. Factories that turned out goods consumers hadn't the slightest desire to buy were being boarded up. Food shortages threatened to create riot conditions. It was a grim picture.
The General carefully moved his coffee cup and rearranged the silverware as though lining up his troops for a frontal assault. Then he fired a penetrating gaze across the table. "You know the havoc thousands of disillusioned Mexicans can create, sneaking across your southern border. I am sure you remember what happened to West Germany, how they were nearly overwhelmed by a hundred thousand hopeless souls sweeping in from the East."
"Surely you don't think…?" His voice trailed off, leaving the unthinkable unsaid. Those high-priced analysts in the Intelligence Directorate, people with fancy degrees and a ceaseless input of technical and human intelligence, hadn't mentioned such a possibility as this.
"Think it could not happen to us? My dear fellow," said the General with the indulgence of a priest for a non-believer, "it is happening right now. Just a week ago, we received word of a large group of unemployed workers leaving Kiev, heading west. Our agents infiltrated their ranks and reported treasonous grumblings, open talk of abandoning the motherland. From Volgograd, others were reported moving south toward the Black Sea. It is undoubtedly just the beginning. In the old days, we could have put a stop to such foolhardiness. Not after perestroika and the failed coup. Can you imagine the effect of millions of Russians pouring in panic across the borders in Europe, the Middle East, and Asia?"
Try as he might, the Foxhunter could not hide the dismay that showed in his eyes. At first it had seemed almost beyond imagination. But now he could see the possibility, perhaps even the inevitability, given the current trend of unrest all across the vast territory of the Soviet "Dis-Union."
The General's features relaxed into a hint of a smile as he asked, "Can you guess where the majority of them will demand to be resettled?"
The American pushed a large hand through his dark hair. His heavy brows knitted almost into a straight line. His voice was that of a prisoner being led to the gallows. "The U.S. of A."
"Exactly. You have had your problems with Chicanos calling for Spanish as an official language. Are you prepared to add Russian to your curriculum? Are you ready for the Russification of America?"
The Foxhunter could picture the problem. With billions going into the savings and loan bailout, failing banks folding like muddle-headed poker players, the deficit further bloated by the legacy of the Persian Gulf War, and the economy barely limping along, a huge influx of immigrants from any quarter would be disastrous.
"There must be a way to stop it," he said.
"Not without fundamental changes. Your President was the one who pressured us into opening the gates to unlimited emigration. Our people are free to leave."
A muscle in the American's jaw twitched. "Right, and the bastard would probably welcome them with open arms." His voice turned more toward a growl. "He'd have the Treasury bankrupt in less than six months."
"I am glad you understand. You have nearly as great a stake as we in the resolution of this dilemma. The problem, of course, lies in the new leadership." The way he said it, "new" could have been a four-letter word. "They forced out people who knew how to maintain stability and order. And they opened the door to every rabble-rousing trouble-maker across the land. People are being pulled in a hundred different directions. There's no longer any reliable central authority. It is pure chaos."
The General’s feelings were clear. Under the infamous banner of perestroika, the Soviet and Russian Republic presidents and their cohorts had disfigured the face of communism, dismantled the achievements of the revolution. Over seventy years of struggle to build a bastion of socialist power was being discarded like a broken toy in the rush to embrace a bastard form of capitalism.
"You aren't alone," said the Foxhunter, now openly sympathetic with his longtime adversary. Without a formidable foe to contend with, he and his colleagues would face a bleak future. "The bleeding-heart liberals of America are going to ruin us in the same damned way. And they seem to be gaining the upper hand."
"It appears to me that we share a common problem," the General said, his voice that of a businessman on the brink of a deal. "Would not both our interests be much better served if our governments were in more friendly hands?"
"You're damned right about that."
His own inner circle, led by a few titans of American industry who formed his power base, was irate over the way the current administration had refused to stop the drain of America's energy and might. The unprecedented military build-up in the Middle East, which had successfully thwarted a power-hungry Iraqi dictator, had ended predictably in new moves to balance the budget at the expense of the Defense Department and the CIA.
What both men were thinking, but neither dared put into words, was that the thawing of the Cold War had placed the arch-conservatives of both East and West in jeopardy. They saw misguided men seizing the opportunity to demand less money for military and intelligence-gathering capabilities, more for the frivolities of social programs and questionable methods of restructuring the economies. So-called "reformers" moved openly to eliminate a tradition of leadership that had been responsible for raising the superpowers to their lofty pinnacles. The ebb tide of change was sweeping the old guard toward a watery grave. Their response was to demand that the General and the Foxhunter produce lifeboats. To such men, power was everything. It meant authority, control, influence. It was a way of life, and to lose it was a tragedy to be avoided at any cost.